There is a ring
a stained circle
of mahogany
where her mug sat
for too long
while mindless images
flashed across the room.
There is a swatch of carpet
two shades darker than the rest
where we ignored
the spilled coffee
making itself famous to the fibers
There are half-remembered echoes
and reverberations
of voices raised in anger
over a topic long forgotten
though
the walls remember.
There is a faint,
almost nothing,
trace of her perfume
on the blanket she cried into
and threw at me
as a parting blow.

Now there are only the mindless images,
remembered reverberations,
and a ring marring the table.